When I started Life After Benjamin my intention was to write daily for a year, to record the moments of horror and grace that happen so quickly, so intensely, then are gone. This past week of travel I have missed days of writing. The Alana that existed before this pregnancy, before Ben’s death, would have held on to the failure, the unmet expectation and used it as a stick with which to batter my already grief-stricken spirit. The Alana that lives now, in this weakened body and more connected soul, is learning compassion and acceptance. Though there is an ache when I don’t write, I am able to acknowledge the reasons (time with friends I rarely see, exhaustion), forgive myself and return to the page with love at the next opportunity.

I can feel the old habits begin to surface, the should’s and supposed to’s. I’ve lived with them a long time and they are familiar companions. But I know they no longer serve me and I am learning to reach for the better thought, the better feeling. The warmth of forgiveness helps chase them away.

*****

In other news our newest niece has not made her appearance yet though she might decide to come today. I am hoping she is born before we board our plane in the wee hours of the morning. I am anxious to meet her, to experience whatever feelings come, to love her and welcome her to our family.

If I hadn’t miscarried in January I would be giving birth now too. If Ben hadn’t died I would be almost 30 weeks pregnant. The thought hit me again this morning as I watched Ada sleep, maybe if I wait a year or two, maybe if I get really healthy and see my acupuncturist through the pregnancy, maybe I could have another child. Despite the ache of it, the sense of impossibility that accompanies it, I’m not quite ready to let the hope go.

The body stores emotion, stores memory. In our muscles, tendons, and connective tissue are the experiences of our lives, whether we remember them or not. Trauma haunts us from our insides unless – until – we deal with it.

I have used my body as a means of expression through much of my life – dance, theater, Pilates, yoga. I have seen chiropractors, acupuncturists, physical therapists and body workers. I know the healing powers of massage, Reiki, cranial-sacral therapy, myofascial release and EFT.

Why – why? – was I so surprised when I began to dance (tentatively, gingerly) at the wedding last night and the molten lava of my grief spilled over? I had to choose between letting the volcano erupt and leaving the wedding (the eye makeup would never have recovered) or letting it spill gently over the side until it cooled enough for me to walk over it and back into the room.

The whole day I walked a tightrope of emotion and by mid-afternoon my body began to rebel. A glass of post-wedding champagne sent me spinning. I could feel myself hardening into a protective shell though I fought against it. Eventually I was able to let it go.

Two people asked me if Ada was my only child. I answered honestly. I wore my grief, hidden lightly by my shawl – not obvious but easily uncovered by the slightest tug at a fringed corner. I considered leaving early but thought I’ve come all this way, I’m not ready to give up. I was there because I love the bride and I didn’t want to disappear into the night. I resolved to open my heart and as a result I had difficult moments and lovely conversations. Staying open and being present, being honest while grieving feels risky, exhausting and at the same time, absolutely the only way for me to be.

The lesson? Dance. Grieve. Keep my heart open. Heal my body. Dance some more.

Baby boy with chunky 3 month old legs.

Questions and answers – tell me your story and I’ll tell you mine. Different situations but the same loss. A baby so wanted, so loved, so alive, then gone.

Baby boy with wide 5 month old eyes.

Gentle eyes, a hand on my arm, a smile soft and warm. I want to tell you I am so sorry for all you’ve been through. I want to acknowledge it. If you want to talk about it, if you don’t, I am here.

A campfire, the ocean, songs and smiles. The celebration before the celebration. A wedding tomorrow. Tonight you can reach out and touch love.

I felt like I was missing a part of myself yesterday when I was unable to post. I know that no matter what else happens in my day, I will be able to sit for a few minutes with myself, my grief, my joys, my process.

So here’s what I would have said last night if I could have.

*****

We traveled today to Vancouver Island. We are here for a wedding, to see one of my best friends and then my brother, his wife, their daughter and if she obliges by arriving close to her due date, my newest niece.

My gorgeous goddess friend Diana and I started in the dance program together at university and were roommates for a time. I was a bridesmaid at her wedding and it was the weight of her four month old son’s sleeping body on my chest that convinced me on a cellular level that I wanted children. Her gift to us at our wedding was to make our flowers – and my face – look beautiful.  We’ve talked each other through love affairs, marriages, separations, divorce proceedings, parenting, starting and ending businesses, following our hearts and our spiritual paths. We haven’t seen each other in five years but in that moment of hello, time warps and shifts so that no time has passed at all. We have more gray hair now and more lines on our faces. My body is heavy and full with grief, hers is thin and strong from dance, single mamahood and big career growth.

I couldn’t wait for her to meet Ada. Two bright lights in my life finally coming together.

They had so much fun. When they danced together to Beyonce’s Halo, my eyes filled.

A love song to all of my angels.